


Experiment

by HybridComplex



Category: Prometheus (2012)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Gore, M/M, Vivisection, hybrid would like to apologize for continuously writing gross things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HybridComplex/pseuds/HybridComplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're scientists with strange predilections and they are perfectly okay with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Experiment

David doesn’t question them when they request access to cryodeck, easily accepting their excuse of needing it for an experiment. They don’t believe for a second that he isn’t curious and Millburn is pretty sure he’s going to be watching either during or after the _experiment_.  
  
That turns him on more than it should.  
  
Fifield shoves him through the door to cryodeck, keys it closed behind them, locks it and shutters the windows. His body is nearly vibrating, excitement curling through his limbs. He presses Millburn to the wall, bites into his mouth, groans at the heat of him. Can’t wait to feel a different kind of heat, twisting and slick. Millburn is the one that pulls away, chest heaving and mouth twisted into a nervous grin. He goes to the hypers, easily finds the one tailored to his size. He takes a moment to imagine what it would be like to be in cryosleep in the same hyper as Fifield, curled around him for the long journey back to earth.  
  
He touches his finger to the surface, bites his lip as he watches it open, feels Fifield give a fleeting touch to the small of his back. Millburn pulls his shirt over his head, shimmies out of his sweat pants and climbs in. Fifield toys with the settings, has the cover fold back and lower so it covers Millburn’s legs, it’s reach just enough to cast cold into his nerves, dull all sensation. He watches Fifield prep a curved needle, forceps and rubber bands, a length of thread and another of gauze -about a thousand feet long because Millburn is the biggest thing known to man- and a scalpel.  
  
A marker is pulled from the geologist’s pocket, dotted lines drawn from sternum to belly button, left to right. He switches it out for the scalpel, leans over to press a soft kiss to Millburn’s lips before moving lower, touching the sharp edge to the lines. He presses down and drags, a sound like ripping fabric filling the room. Blood wells up slow, pooling in the faint dips between muscle. Fifield licks his lips and Millburn lifts his head and his hand, prods the point where the two slices meet at the centre of his belly, grins at the catch of breath in Fifield’s chest.  
  
Millburn’s fingers are clumsy but he helps Fifield wipe away the blood, open him up, pull the flaps of skin outwards with the forceps, folds them over. He lifts his head up higher, strains to peer into himself, spread open like a Christmas gift in a horror movie. Fifield presses his fingers between the folds of Millburn’s intestines, gives a little tug, strokes his thumb over the hot swell of a stomach that’s surely twice the size of his own. He beats out a rhythm there, watches it twitch, hears the sound of it so clearly.  
  
Millburn dips his own fingers inside, distantly compares the cold of his skin to the fire of his insides, pushes Fifield’s fingers away to slowly move his intestines aside, back tense and spine tingling, unsure if it’s completely safe. A soft moan shudders in Fifield’s throat as he reaches further, curls his fingers behind to caress the slope of a kidney. Millburn’s hips roll, more feeling retained along the back of him, a pleasure that he knows should be pain rushing up through his bones.  
  
Fifield can’t help himself then, pulls his hand back around to force his fingers up between skin and bone, spreads them and presses down and leans over to bite at Millburn’s lips, lick into his mouth, drag their noses together.  
  
That’s when they have to stop, the cold from the hyper drying the contours of his organs, blood still beading slow from the edges of his open belly. The forceps have left four identical marks on his skin that are sure to bruise, shaped like teardrops. The lines of thread that seal him up touch their edges and Millburn can’t wait to feel the pain of them.  
  
He climbs from his hyper carefully, leans back on it, presses his thumbs to Fifield’s collarbones and curls his fingers against the nape of his neck to keep his arms elevated as the other man wraps the gauze tight around him from ribs to hips. Millburn hums and tangles his fingers in Fifield’s mohawk as they kiss, grins into it, leans back as Fifield leans forward to fiddle with the hyper again, loads the recorded data onto a disk.


End file.
